Sunflowers
by Souboshi Shinomouri
Summary: Ivan wants a land all his own, a land that grows sunflowers, a land that is not ravaged by General Winter. He will go to a great many lengths to achieve his goals, but what happens when a certain hero gets in the way? RusAme
1. Ch 1: A Goal

Sunflowers: Ch. 1 A Goal

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, though I almost wish I could.

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It was dark. Snow covered the ground, much like the ice that covered the leafless branches of the trees. Small puffs of warm air floated from the mouth of a small child huddled at the base of a dead tree. The white-haired boy shivered, his violet eyes searching the forest for any sign of attack.

At the sound of crunching snow, the boy pulled further toward the tree, trying to merge with it to escape the snowy wasteland that was his home. He peered around, searching for the source of the sound.

Nothing.

He could make out nothing in the pale sliver of moonlight, the stars being shielded by clouds. In the glint of the snow and ice, Ivan pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose, wrapping his arms about his knees in an attempt to become invisible to his attacker.

Another crunching sound. Then another and yet another, coming ever closer.

Ivan began to shiver in fear. He had not yet become strong enough to thwart General Winter's attacks. He was just too strong and Russia too small.

The large, powerful man came into view. Standing tall and proud, the General stared down his small adversary. He had not yet completely destroyed the weak nation, but he has tried every year. The small boy is able to avoid him most of the time, planting seeds and killing animals for survival when he can. But not this time. No. General Winter would succeed this time because the poor child did not have enough animals to kill and because he did not stock-pile enough plants to live off of. He came closer to the child, quivering in fear, a knowing sneer spreading across his face as he trudged through the snow.

Ivan looked up, defiance showing through his fear-strained eyes. He would not die this night. Not this night. These were his woods and they would always be his woods.

General Winter stopped, slightly put off by the strength of the child's gaze. His grin faltered for just a moment, but returned in all its force as he pulled his sword from its sheath. The boy would die and the forest would be his for the rest of eternity. He settled into a proper stance to swing the blade and behead the boy, pulling it up and letting it fall in a beautiful arc.

Suddenly, Ivan jumped up, violet eyes flashing in the light of the dagger he pulled from his long, ragged coat. General Winter staggered backward, gently touching the bloody gash in his stomach. He looked up, smiling at his adversary. This would be fun. The large man pulled his sword back and, with a yell, lunged at the small child who ducked between his legs, slashing at his calves and ankles, trying to bring him down.

Ivan succeeded. The great man gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow, a pool of blood beginning to soak into the snow around his legs. The general tried to get up, only to fall back down, his Achilles' tendons sliced. He let out a growl of frustration that was silenced by the child as Ivan jumped atop his back, pushing him into the snow with a loud crunch.

Ivan hacked at the man beneath him, listening to the screams echoing through the forest with a faint smile etched across his face. He had won. The boy hacked straight through General Winter's throat, ripping his head off and throwing it to lie in the snow a few feet away. He grinned. He had won!

The boy let out a small chuckle as the man and his blood began to disappear, melting into the snow-covered ground.

Humming to himself, Ivan stood and began walking through the forest, not an ounce of fear left in him. He had survived another winter. It would soon be spring, time to plant crops again. And who knows, maybe he would harvest enough to make it through without any difficulty next year.

Ivan began swinging the knife playfully around, cutting little nicks into the trees as he passed, pausing only when he caught a glimpse of light in the distance. The sky had begun to turn grey, signaling the rise of the morning sun. He laughed lightly and continued on his way. He would go see how his people in Moscow had faired this winter; that's what he would do.

Happily trudging through the snow, Ivan began to notice signs that spring was fast approaching: signs he had missed the day before in his attempt to escape General Winter's grasp. The ice was beginning to melt and water was dripping from the trees to form small pock-holes below the branches in the snow. There were small puddles of water here and there where, normally, there would have been ice to slip on or snow to jump in. Ivan smiled to himself. He should have noticed General Winter's power weakening. He would not miss such obvious information in the future.

The day continued with Ivan walking through the forest, coming to the edge as night began to fall. He made a small fire at the base of a large tree, curling in between the roots to keep warm. Ivan smiled to himself as he fell into a more peaceful sleep than he had all winter. He could not wait to see Moscow the next evening.

He woke with a start at the sound of crunching snow much before dawn. The fire had gone out long ago, leaving only coals.

Quickly getting to his feet, the boy looked around, wary of any sign of danger. His violet eyes quickly spotted the culprit, a large white hare, nibbling at a spot of grass poking up at the base of a tree not that far away. Ivan smiled at the hare and looked back to what was his fire.

Ten minutes later, Ivan was humming happily as he skinned and cooked the animal over a newly-lit flame. When it was properly prepared, he ate what he wanted and put the rest into the pocket of his coat, kicking out the flames of his fire and beginning his walk out over the field toward Moscow, still before daylight.

Just as dawn was beginning to lighten the edges of the sky, Ivan saw something small poking up out of the flatness of the snow-covered ground. It looked lonely out in the middle of the snowy waste and he ran toward it, eager to find out just what it was.

As he came closer, he could tell; it was a sunflower. Standing proud to meet the dawn, face turned toward the east where light was starting to filter through the grey clouds in a plethora of reds, purples, yellows, and gold. Ivan was in awe of this lone flower, this plant that seemed to be standing there for the sole purpose to meet the sun. He sat and watched it, seeing its face and watching it all day until the sun set. After darkness had set in, Ivan slowly stood, gazing at the flower.

_One day, I will have a land where sunflowers grow strong in great numbers, where I can sit and watch the sun with them and they with me. It will be a land where there are long, warm summers and I will not have to battle General Winter for my life. It will be my place, a place where things will be as they should. _

Ivan smiled and hummed to himself as he continued to Moscow, having a new goal in mind: A goal that he would pursue far on into his life.

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A.N. Yes. I know there's no Alfred in this, yet, but it's coming, I swear! :D


	2. Ch 2: The Meeting

Yay for chapter two! I'm on a roll! ^^ Finally, there's some Alfred and Ivan interaction for you people! :D

I would like to take the time to thank the two awesome people who have reviewed thus far: Ryukansen, who was my first reviewer; and The Fujoshi, who was my second! I really appreciate knowing you guys appreciate my work enough to write me about it.

Disclaimer: I am the not the owner of Hetalia.

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"And that's what I think we should do about the economic situation!" The cheerful, blonde nation condensed his wooden pointer with a snap between his hands. "Any questions?" he asked his audience, brightly.

A silence fell over the conference room. Every nation was speechless. Nothing of the like had ever been suggested, even by Alfred. Finally, Japan feebly spoke up. "I-I agree with Ameri-"

A palm was slammed down on the table, cutting off Kiku's statement. "You dumb _git_! That has got to be the most blatantly _stupid_ idea I have ever heard, Alfred! What could sending half our populations to the moon possibly solve? And better yet: how in the name of Queen Elizabeth are we supposed to _get them there_?" Arthur stressed the last three words, pushing the letters through his teeth as if doing so would prevent himself from physically harming the boy at the head of the table. "We haven't got the technology to be sending people flying to the moon to live!" The United Kingdom waved one of his hands in the air in a wild gesture. "Besides, how the bloody _Hell_ do you suppose we would come up with the money to fund such a ridiculous expedition? I know none of _my_ people would be willing to forward any money into your little escapade. _You're_ the one who put us in this mess, in the first place!" The Brit spat out his words like venom, trying to force Alfred to understand, for the first time in his life, just how stupid his ideas really were.

A hurt look shocked through Alfred's features for a moment, but it soon disappeared, only to be replaced by his shining grin. "Oh, Iggy, you wouldn't understand at all. You're on an itty bitty island all by yourself and you never had any of the awesome space tech I made!" The boy waved it off with a flip of his hand. Turning back to Japan, Alfred's grin widened. "You understand a bit better, don't you, Kiku? You make all those awesome spacey video games I like so much."

The quiet country only nodded slightly, trying to look assuring. His economy wasn't quite as bad as the other countries because of Alfred's incessant need for new entertainment. He could at least handle humoring America until he had been shot down completely by the other nations.

The bold blonde looked around the room, seeing if he could get someone else's approval for his amazing new idea.

Greece was asleep, as per usual. France had taken up quietly badgering England for being 'too hard on the boy' and Germany was holding his face in such a way that suggested he had a terrible headache. The only one paying him any heed was Russia. Ivan was smiling at him in his disarming way, the way that suggested nothing of what was going on inside his head.

Not skipping a beat, Alfred grinned at Ivan. "What do you think, Russia? You have some space know-how, too!"

The broad, white-haired man looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he were truly considering this new idea of Alfred's. Then, he smiled. "I think…I would love to help you, America."

The whole room went quiet, everyone staring in shock at Ivan. Even Alfred was a bit flustered for a moment, quickly covering it up with his winning smile.

"But," he continued, "only under one condition." He leaned forward a little, as if he was about to whisper some terrible secret that only Alfred could hear.

In spite of himself, the boy leaned forward, anxiously awaiting the condition for Ivan's assistance in his plan.

Ivan held up a finger. "You must become one with me." He smiled and sat back up straight, looking as if he had just made the most desirable offering of a condition possible, waiting for Alfred's reaction.

Needless to say, Alfred was appalled. The other nations were not surprised in the least and knew a miniature battle was coming. All of them proceeded to excuse themselves, Francis retreating first, dragging an unwilling Arthur along behind. The last to leave was Germany, nearly catching a book to his head as Alfred leapt across the table at Ivan before he shut the door with a quiet 'thunk.'

Nothing new. Everyone knew Ivan had it out for Alfred, except for the oblivious American, because Ivan wanted to hold the world in his hands and America was the country that threatened him most. Everyone also knew that Alfred had it out for Ivan, just because the Russian nation was the same as the former Soviet Union. Alfred just couldn't seem to get over the former communistic nature of the Russian's person. Ivan just seemed to like antagonizing it.

The large German sighed and began ushering the other countries out of the hallway and into another conference room further down. Perhaps, he thought, they may get something accomplished without the over-excited American and the sociopathic Russian getting in the way. Of course, Italy was still there, vying for his attention with every breath, in constant need of pasta. England was desperately trying to fend off France so he could go save the ass of his former colony. Greece, upon entering the room, had promptly sunk into a chair and back into slumber. They would be getting nothing done today. He shook his head. He might as well adjourn the meeting and let everyone get some rest before they picked it back up tomorrow. So, that was exactly what he did, slipping a note about it under the door to the former conference room before leaving for his hotel room, a bobbing Italian in tow. Hopefully, they would see the note and calm down before making war in New York City.

A few hours later, Alfred was lying, panting on a pile of folders and strewn papers in the corner of the room, the projector screen ripped and folding over on itself above his head. Ivan was in a similar position at the far end of the room. Much to the American's satisfaction, the large man had a few cuts and bruises, his scarf pulled a bit askew from when Alfred had attempted to strangle him with it.

Ivan looked to the ceiling, thinking about the draws they always ended up in. All of their skirmishes seemed to end in a stalemate. The white-haired Russian smiled and chuckled to himself, sitting up slowly, and finding his spigot pipe to tuck safely back inside his coat.

The American sat up as well, watching his formerly-Soviet counterpart getting to his feet. He decided to stand as well, not wanting to give the man an opening he could possibly take. Back popping in several places, he pulled himself up.

From opposite sides of the room, the two opponents gauged each other. Neither wanted to give ground, but both thought it prudent to leave before more could be made of the situation.

Slowly, Alfred's ever-present grin began to form again. He laughed at the situation and began to gather his things to leave the office. "You know, Russia, you've improved your left hook since we last fought. I think it may have left a bruise." The boy rubbed his cheek where the Russian's fist had made impact absentmindedly as he continued shoving papers into his folders. He would sort them later.

Ivan chuckled. "Your defenses have improved, as well, America. I was pleasantly surprised when you dodged my pipe the first time I struck."

Alfred looked up, still grinning, shoving the mish-mash of folders into his briefcase without glancing down. "Well, I've been getting lots of practice 'cause Tony throws stuff at me all the time. If you don't want an X-Box disc to slice your arm open, you learn how to move out of the way." The blonde laughed, pulling his briefcase off the table to hang at his side. He walked forward, taking sure steps like he always did, and stuck out his hand.

Ivan looked surprised for a moment, but took the hand and shook it firmly. "It has been nice seeing you again, America. Perhaps tomorrow we will try not to force the others from the room with our arguing."

Laughing, Alfred let go of Ivan's hand. "Yeah, yeah. I'll try not to walk into those weird statements of yours and you'll just be like you always are: quiet and creepy." Turning, the boy gave one last wave and left the room.

Ivan stood quietly and looked out the window at the skyscrapers adorning the darkening New York City skyline. _Am I really that creepy? _He looked down at the hand that Alfred shook before his departure. _Well, it does not really matter because I will reach my goal, America, whether you like it or not. You cannot stand in my way._ He smiled to himself and, taking one last glance out the window at the beautiful American sunset, departed from the room, making his way out of the building to his hotel with his room full of sunflowers.

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A.N. Let me know what you guys think. Any ideas for future chapters? Totally open to criticism. Anything obviously wrong should be pointed out to me before too many people read this, please! I'll try to get chapter three finished soon. Thanks for reading! :D


	3. Ch 3: Behind the Mask

Oh, my God! It's been so long! I'm so sorry! TLT I hope to update more often. It's been YEARS! YEARS! But I'm finally continuing this and, hopefully, my other one.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia!

Alfred opened the door to his New York penthouse flat, tossing his overstuffed briefcase of file folders and notes on the wooden entry table along with his keys. Unzipping his signature bomber jacket, Alfred called out into the hall, "Tony! Tony! I'm home!~" Alfred hung his coat on an empty hook and bent down to untie his boots. "Tony!~ Hello!~ Did you teleport away again?" Kicking off his boots and pushing them under the table, the American grabbed up his briefcase again and strolled into his flat. "Hey! TONY!~"

Alfred stopped in the living room, looking around the beautiful, modern decor England would never believe he could maintain. "Hn. Guess he's gone for a while. Would it kill him to leave a note?" Tossing the briefcase onto his leather couch, Alfred made a bee-line for the kitchen. _I'm starving! Fighting Ivan really worked up my appetite._

The blonde reached into his fridge and pulled out a carton of fried rice from last night's Chinese binge. Pulling out a drawer, he grabbed a fork and placed the rice in the microwave, pushing a few buttons before leaning on the counter to watch it turn with hungry anticipation. When the beeping signaled the cycle's completion, Alfred reached into the microwave, yanking out the steaming rice and shoving a forkful into his mouth.

"AGH! HOT!" Dropping the cardboard container onto the counter, the blonde yanked open the fridge with one hand and a cupboard with another. He pulled out a glass and a jug of milk, pouring and guzzling the cup down before gasping with relief. Even after being alive hundreds of years, Alfred still got over-excited about filling his stomach, causing him to wolf down food that was too hot or too cold, always resulting in brain freeze or burns that made everything taste like rubber for a couple hours. He would learn his lesson for about a week and then do it again, and again, and again. Call it his curse.

Alfred wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That one would smart for a couple minutes. Even with his extraordinary healing abilities, the remainder of his rice would taste weird. He sighed. _Oh, well. _At least it would take the edge off his hunger. Picking up the container of rice, he placed the used glass in the sink and turned to look out the window across the kitchen. The sky was still in the midst of color change, the city draped in purples, oranges, and reds, the lights and sounds of New York drifting up to the flat from the city below.

Fork hanging from his mouth, Alfred wandered over to stand in front of the floor to ceiling window. Blowing carefully on a forkful of rice, the blonde began to eat and watch the sunset. _I'm so lucky. New York City is so beautiful... _Alfred smiled proudly down at his people below. He loved his country from the bottom of his heart.

Watching the colours shift and clouds journey across the sky, Alfred calmly finished his fried rice, not rushing and wolfing it down like people thought he always did. Sure, he got excited about food all the time, but he knew how to enjoy what he had.

After he finished his meal and watched the sun set completely behind the New York skyline, Alfred washed his fork and glass, putting them in the strainer beside the sink and walked back to the living room. Flopping unceremoniously onto the couch and kicking his socked feet onto the burgundy wood coffee table, the blonde opened up his briefcase and began sorting through his notes and folders from the meeting.

The meeting... Alfred paused, looking at a slightly disheveled notebook.

Everyone always laughed at his ideas. They never realized just how much planning and thought he actually put into some of them. He always covered up his serious ideas with fake, completely ridiculous ones. He dropped the ruffled notebook full of careful calculations onto the couch next to him. He looked up at the ceiling. No-one knew and no-one noticed that he built grand cities like New York and L.A. or had beautiful landmarks like the Grand Canyon and Old Faithful that he took loving care of. Everyone only knew him as the eccentric, slightly stupid, hero-obsessed, youngster. His brother knew, but Matthew was never really acknowledged at all.

Not many countries made it to the meeting Alfred had announced here in New York this week. A few nations had made it a point to attend, to discuss the current economic situation, but most had dismissed the invitation, knowing they would have to listen to America rant about something silly and witness England's angry retaliation and France's incessant philandering.

Alfred continued to go through his briefcase, pulling out all his notes and files, sorting them and neatly placing them in piles. One pile of careful calculations and the other of all his "heroic" plans to be presented. Every time there was a meeting, he would have this debate: which to choose? Usually, the hero-oriented pages would win out and people would continue to believe him an idiot, but occasionally he would present something worth-while and shock everyone into silence. They would all stammer out agreement and proceed to finalize the plans. He lived for those days.

The sunshine-blonde leaned back and closed his eyes. _Those days...the days when I really am the hero..._ A faint smile graced his lips...a real smile, not the goofy grin straight from Hollywood. _But not this time..._ The smile slipping from his lips, Alfred sat up and shoved one of the carefully-stacked piles from the coffee table onto the floor where they fell open and scattered haphazardly.

Sighing, Alfred got up from the couch and went to his room, the only sign of his hero obsession his framed collectable of the first issue of "Superman" displayed lovingly on his dark wooden dresser. Everything else was simple in design. Masculine and carefully maintained. Neat edges and light off-whites made more sheik by the dark wood accents and furniture. A small, antique music box sat on the night-stand next to the American's alarm clock and modern lamp: a memento from a time long since past. The blonde walked into the adjoining bathroom, small, but beautifully-furnished. A black, wooden vase with white lilies sat to the side of the sink on the marble countertop. It was obvious they were fresh and well-cared-for, so the place for all its cleanliness was lived-in.

Alfred stripped, tossing his clothes into the hamper and showered, pulling a towel from the rack to dry with and wrap around his waist. He brushed his teeth and then walked back to his bedroom, dropping the towel and pulling on a pair of boxers, with stars and stripes, of course.

Alfred then proceeded to do what would cause England to die of shock: in stead of flopping face-first into his bed, Alfred picked up his towel, re-entered the bathroom and cleaned it until it was spotless, even drying the shower door so there would be no water stains to speak of. Alfred was meticulous, and when he was done, everything was exactly where it belonged and the towel was in the hamper with his laundry.

Smiling slightly at his spotless bathroom, Alfred looked at the lilies. They would need to be replaced within the week. They were just barely starting to wilt and Alfred couldn't stand the thought of seeing the beautiful flowers fading away.

He flipped the light off and turned back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Alfred hated open doors when he slept. Couldn't stand them. Most of his freaking out at horror movies was an act, but there were some things that really got to him. A room with open doors in the dark was one of them.

Alfred sat heavily on the edge of his bed, pulling open the blinds of the large window above it. The city shone with a thousand lights. _The city that never sleeps..._ Alfred smiled fondly at the lights and flopped back onto his pillow, looking up at the dancing sparkles glinting off his ceiling.

He turned his head to look at the music box on the nightstand. Reaching over, he pulled the box onto his chest and pulled out the key. Inserting it into the key-hole, he turned until he was satisfied. Every night he listened. Every night, the same tune lulled him to sleep. The hero removed the key and replaced it in the box. He opened the lid and watched with bright blue eyes, waiting for the song to play.

When it did, his smile grew and he sung along in his head, turning over and placing the old box back on the night-stand along with his glasses and pulling the blankets up and around himself.

He snuggled into his pillow, the faint smile present as the last notes floated through the air and he drifted to sleep, the final words a whisper in his mind. _...was blind, but now, I see..._

Hope you guys enjoyed the next installment, late as it is. :P But the next one will be up soon and it will have Ivan's night! :D Already know where I'm going with this one...

Comments and critiques are always appreciated and adored!~ ^L^


	4. Ch 4: What Was Found

Next installment! As promised, I updated as quick as possible! Hope you enjoy Ivan's lovely night.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Ivan ran the card-key absent-mindedly through the lock to his hotel room. The wind outside was just beginning to get the autumn chill from New England and the sky was a brilliant orange outside the window. At the 'click' of the lock, Russia pushed open the door, set down his briefcase and began undoing his ever-present coat. Hanging it on a nearby rack, he bent down and untied, unlaced, and removed his boots, nudging them into the corner.

He straightened himself and took the end of his scarf between the fingers of one hand, gently caressing the light pink fabric. _What to do for dinner... _Ivan wandered into the suite, turning into the small kitchenette. _I suppose I could make some soup...maybe heat up that loaf of bread... _Humming a light tune, the Russian pulled from a cupboard a can of Matzo soup and, popping the lid open, poured it into a bowl from a neighboring cupboard. Ivan placed the bowl of soup in the microwave and pushed the buttons to set it. While he waited for the food to heat, the blonde opened the mini-fridge, violet eyes searching for what he knew would be there.

Upon locating the bottle, the large man removed it and twisted off the lid, taking a swig of the clear liquid. Smiling brightly at it, Ivan leaned back on the counter watching the bowl in the microwave rotate endlessly. When he heard the beeping, the Russian blinked. _Oh, yes. The bread._ Turning back to the cupboard, Ivan pulled out a paper-wrapped loaf of bread fresh from the bakery this morning. _There doesn't appear to be an oven, so I suppose I will just eat it as it is... _Shrugging, Ivan unwrapped the bread and ripped off a chunk, putting the rest back in the cupboard and removing the bowl of soup from the microwave.

The Russian walked to the small dining table and set down his dinner, pulling out a wooden chair and sitting down to eat.

Looking out the window, Ivan dipped his bread into the soup, taking a bite and watching the play of colours across the sky until the last of the flaming orange and red sank beneath the New York skyline and he had eaten his meal.

He sat for a while and contemplated the lights below. They shone like the stars that couldn't be seen in the sky, as if trying to make up for the lack of constellations.

Ivan's eyes wandered from the window to look around the now dark hotel suite. It was small, plain, but comfortable and modern. A nice hotel for his week-long stay in New York City. It was obvious which nation inhabited this room: there were vases of varying sizes and shapes displaying fresh sunflowers scattered all about the room in the corners on the floor, and one on every flat surface, and an empty vodka bottle sat on the nightstand next to the bed. He had finished it the night before.

Eyes coming to rest on the vodka bottle, Ivan sighed and stood from his chair, pushing it back in and picking up his empty bowl to wash and set aside. He walked to the nightstand and replaced the empty bottle with his nearly full one and tossed it into the garbage.

Ivan hummed and gently removed his scarf, carefully setting it on the bed, shivering slightly at it's lost presence. He unconsciously tucked his chin a bit, and began undoing his tie, tossing that to hang over the back of a chair. He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it into the hamper as he passed on his way to the bathroom, stripping the rest of the way and closing the door to keep in the heat.

He took a warm, pleasant shower, washing what remained of the nicks from his scuffle with Alfred and pushing all the day's stress from his mind. Everything healed. Scars faded and cuts would vanish. Bruises disappeared in minutes, but his mind was what never quite forgot. Every nation was like that. Their flesh healed much more quickly than the humans' they represented, but their minds were slow to mend. Years of living under the rule of monstrous men had done a number on Ivan, even his skin hadn't completely healed over all those years. The scars of starvation, hatred, rage, and pain had stayed and imprinted themselves around Ivan's neck. The warm water rinsed the lather from his hair, streaming down to flow over uneven skin.

It was relaxing, forgetting everything for a little while. Just being human for an hour every day. It was what kept him sane. _Sane?_ Ivan giggled a little to himself. _Well, saner than before, I suppose..._ Ivan closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth permeating his skin, pushing away the creeping winter chill in his bones.

After a half hour of enjoyment, the blonde stepped from the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel about his waist and brushing his teeth in the mirror before walking back into his hotel room to sift through the wardrobe for a fresh pair of boxers.

Pulling on his boxers, Ivan tossed the towel into the hamper and pulled on a pair of warm sleep-pants and a sweater. He leaned over the bed picked up his prized scarf and gently re-wrapped it around his neck, touching it softly and reveling in the returned comfort. _Sister..._

With a soft smile, Ivan reached over and picked up the nearly full bottle of vodka, taking another swig and walking back into the entryway to retrieve his briefcase.

The large Russian took a seat at the dining table, popping open the briefcase and pulling out the files of notes and pamphlets from the day's meeting. It was all rather disorganized from his and Alfred's fight, but that could be easily remedied. Then he could check the news and go to bed.

Ivan sorted through the pile of papers and folders scattered, torn, and bent in complete disarray when he found something that was obviously not his among the notes. It was a bent and slightly torn black notebook. Ivan set it aside and finished putting his things away, filing them back into order inside his briefcase for tomorrow's debates.

After closing the lid, his attention fell again to the scruffy black notebook. Taking a thoughtful swig of vodka, the violet-eyed blonde picked it up for examination. _Well, it certainly does not belong to Francis. It is not nearly fruity enough. Perhaps Arthur...?_

Ivan flipped open the notebook only to see the scratchy handwriting of one Alfred F. Jones.

_America?_ It was a little bit rough for Alfred. There were calculations and diagrams, not a single word pertaining to a superhero anywhere on the first page.

Ivan's eyes skimmed through the information, taking it all in. It was surprisingly well-thought-out and the math was not far short of brilliant. The man leaned back in his chair, taking another swig of vodka. He began to flip through the notebook, examining the carefully-gathered and researched data. _I never knew...This could easily be the means to solve our economic issues. _

The Russian stood and began to pace, still staring at the notebook. _Of course, it could use a bit of work, but the basis is still there..._ Ivan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, flopping backward, his scarf askew. He lay there, drinking in the scrawled pages of notes on the economic situation.

_So, why did he give that ridiculous presentation earlier about flying people to the moon...? He had all this. All these notes were right there, waiting to be shown, so why...?_ Anger suddenly twisted in Ivan's stomach. That imbecile had the means to save everyone grief and trouble and yet he would just watch them flounder! Ivan crushed the notebook in his fist, the paper and cardboard crumpling as if it were nothing.

_If you do not wish to present this information, that is fine, Amerika. I will do it for you.~ _With that, Ivan got up and flattened the notebook once again, placing it on top of his notes in his briefcase.

The Russian downed what remained of his bottle of vodka, snapped the lid of the briefcase shut again and flicked the light off before climbing into bed, head still buzzing with facts and figures from Alfred's notes and stomach still boiling with anger at the young nation's audacity. After glaring hatred at the ceiling for a number of hours, the ancient country's mind quieted, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

Uh-oh.~ Someone's in trouble with Ivan tomorrow.~ :3

Reviews and comments are as appreciated as always! ^L^


	5. Ch 5: A Little Bit Different

Ok, so human names will always be used in public so civilians don't get freaked out or think they're crazy or something. :3 Just common sense, people.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia!

Alfred was late. He was always late. He woke up just before dawn like when he had kept chickens and cows to care for, but he still managed to be late to every meeting. One would almost think he did it on purpose.

He got up around five, cleaned his room, started a pot of coffee, made and ate his breakfast. It was nearing six in the morning as he brushed his teeth and combed his hair. The meeting didn't commence until eight, so he had plenty of time, right?

Alfred got dressed, adjusting his tie, and walked into the living room, reminded of the pile of notes and files lying strewn across his floor. He bent and picked all of it up, tossing them into the kitchen trash and dusting off his hands. The blonde returned to the living room to retrieve his briefcase of hero-based explorations and turned to leave, pulling on his signature bomber jacket as he went.

Alfred looked at his watch. _Seven o'clock..._ Upon leaving the apartment, his senses were assaulted by the sight, smell, and sound of a New York City weekday morning. People jostled him about, hailing cabs, buying newspapers, yelling, dropping coffee.

One citizen was doing all of this at the same time. The man had just thrown money at the newspaper stand, pulling a paper away from the rack and was pushing people, trying to hail a cab. The man ran straight into Alfred (who doesn't have a whole lot of give when being plowed into). He yelled as Alfred apologized and both, especially Alfred, were drenched in a piping hot venti coffee from Starbucks.

The blonde American cursed as his face, hair, and bomber jacket were completely soaked through with the over-heated caffeinated beverage. Burning coffee dripping from his glasses, Alfred shoved the man away and stumbled back into his apartment building, reaching the elevator and taking it up to the top floor. The sopping, irritated blonde entered his flat and went straight to the bathroom to drench himself in soothing, cool water. His face was scalded and he was lucky Texas had been there to protect his eyes or he would have been too blind to get himself back up to his apartment.

He pulled off his glasses, jacket, tie, and shirt, and dabbed a cool cloth over his face and neck to quell the burning sensation. He would be late. Again.

When Alfred turned up to the meeting on the second day at nearly nine o'clock, no one was surprised, but everyone was a little confused as to why he looked like he'd been out in the sun too long and why he wasn't wearing his favourite jacket. His hair was sopping wet as if he'd just stepped in from a rainstorm.

His Hollywood grin was pasted across his face, though, so everyone let all of the other stuff go. Everyone especially England.

The short blonde shot up from his chair, the look of ever-present disapproval directed straight at Alfred. "You! Why the bloody _hell _are you LATE!? This is _your_ meeting! You have no excuse! And you look like a drowned rat! I thought I at least taught you how to dress yourself, you wanker!"

Francis came to the rescue, pulling the fuming Brit back down into his chair. "Come, now, Angletterre. Don't yell at the boy.~" He soothingly patted England's back, looking pointedly at Alfred to take his seat and not make a retort.

The American grinned and flopped thankfully into his chair across the table. Looking up at the (now repaired) projector screen, he jolted. _Those notes!_

Germany cleared his throat from down the table. "Now, as you vere saying, Russia..."

_Russia?! _Alfred's gaze was quickly redirected to the imposing man with powerful violet eyes smiling at the head of the table.

"Of course, Germany. As you can see, the implementation of this plan will surely assist all of us in stabilizing and, eventually, repairing our economies. It requires no extra from any one nation and everyone will see the benefits almost immediately." Russia's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment over the American, but the small, childish smile never left his lips.

Alfred shivered slightly. _Those are MY notes! How did he get-_ And then it hit him. After the fight, neither of them had really looked at what they had taken home, both assuming they had grabbed everything and then leaving. _Ivan got one of my notebooks..._

The blonde looked up at the screen, his own words being used by someone else. His own thoughts; thoughts that should never have gotten out to the others. _But at least they don't know it's all from me...Then there would be trouble..._

"But how in the world did you come up with such a fool-proof plan, mon ami?" France leaned forward in his chair, a finger winding in a lock of golden blonde hair. "Did you come up with this out of the blue last night? You were just as lost as the rest of us yesterday.~"

Russia turned his childish smile to the Frenchman. "Well, after all of you left us, America and I had a bit of a discussion about what his real ideas were regarding the situation.~ He felt it best if I present the ideas to all of you.~" Then he watched. _I will find out why you are hiding this information, Amerika.~_

Alfred was speechless. _Why in the name of God did he say that!? He's gonna' ruin everything! _Quickly recovering, Alfred grinned. "What the heck are you talking about? You're the one who said what you were thinking. I just told you to tell everyone else! You can't give me credit for that, big guy!"

Everyone looked between the grinning American and the smiling Russian. Something was going on, but which one was up to what?

Germany was first to speak. "Vell, I do not care who said vat to whom. I am happy ve can finally move toward a solution. Japan? Vat do you think?"

The small Japanese man spoke up and the meeting continued with excited voices hoping to finalize plans for a more successful future. This meeting would adjourn with something good to say to all their bosses.

Only one person was aware of Alfred's relative silence. He interacted in a seemingly normal way, but the Russian noticed Alfred was a little subdued. His smile looked more forced than normal and he looked a bit tense. Ivan wanted to know what the American was thinking inside that sunshine-blonde head.

Alfred was well-aware of the eyes boring into the side of his skull all morning.

When they broke for lunch, he immediately whirled to grab the Russian's coat-sleeve. "C'mon, man! Let's grab some lunch! I'm starving!" Alfred dragged him from the conference room, the man's small smile never leaving his lips. Everyone else looked on in relative surprise as the large man was pulled out the door.

America continued to drag Russia all the way to the stairs, down them, and out the lobby entrance. Ivan allowed himself to be pulled along, curious about the outcome of this little adventure.

They finally stopped in the street just outside a small "soup and sandwich" style cafe. Alfred turned and looked up at the bigger man. "This ok with you? Their sandwiches are awesome and their soup is fantastic."

Ivan nodded, still smiling. "Da. Of course, Alfred."

"Sweet." Alfred flashed his Hollywood smile and pushed open the door to the cafe with a tinkling noise. They agreed on a table away from the window, toward the back corner of the cafe, and took their seats across from one another. Alfred hailed a waitress and ordered a Coke (no surprise there) and an Italian sub. Ivan placed his order of hot tea and a bowl of tomato soup with toast.

Alfred wasted no time after the waitress left. He immediately leaned forward across the table grabbing Ivan's scarf and yanking him down, dangerous blue eyes flashing directly into violet orbs.

The Russian blinked. He was a bit offended by the motion, but more worried about his scarf under the powerful American's grip. The boy rarely knew his own strength and the fabric was worn and old.

"Look, Ivan." Alfred ground out from between his teeth. "I don't know why the _Hell_ you decided to drag me into your little 'revealing,' but I want you to know it is NOT ok. Don't tell ANYONE I came up with those ideas. I didn't show them off for a reason, got it?"

Russia raised a hand peacefully and smiled his creepy, childish smile, his nose no further than an inch from Alfred's. "My apologies, Alfred, but I thought you may have wanted credit where credit was due. You did write the notes, after all.~" _Just like the Cold War.~ Always angry, but only showing your true colours to me.~ _ "I only thought you would not appreciate me taking the idea and giving it out as my own. Copyright infringement _is_ against the law.~"

The blonde sighed in exasperation and let go of Russia's scarf, leaning back in his chair as the waitress approached with their food. The violet-eyed man sat back up and straightened his precious scarf, tenderly patting it back into place. "You know," Ivan said, "you should be more careful where you grab. This is very old and should something happen to it, there will be consequences.~"

Alfred snorted. "I'd never do a damn thing to hurt that scarf, even on my worst day. I know how much it means to you. Why do you think it's still not in pieces, even after all we've done to each-other?" The American glanced sideways across the table at a slightly surprised Ivan. "You can't possibly believe I'd be that much of an ass, can you? We still have to live with each-other and ourselves after every fight, you know, and I couldn't if I'd done something that awful." Blue eyes glinting, Alfred stuck out his tongue. "Let's eat and get back before Arthur worries you've beheaded me or something."

Ivan was strangely touched. The absent-minded American across from him really wasn't that oblivious. Even after everything, wanting to destroy each-other in every possible way, Alfred hadn't destroyed what meant most to Ivan. Of course, Ivan hadn't broken Texas, either. Maybe there had been a few unspoken rules in their lawless war…

The Russian thoughtfully finished his soup and nursed his tea, watching the American across from him.

The boy wasn't stupid. He was obsessed with heroes, but not to the point everyone imagined. He played it up. Obviously those actors in Hollywood had given him some talent to work with. He was brilliant at science and engineering, fully capable of war with the USSR, a feat no-one else could have pulled off. It was only logical that the young nation be just as fluent in economics and mathematics as well.

The more Ivan thought on it, the more he came to understand, the boy had fooled even him, even his older brother England, someone who had raised him. America had fooled the whole world within less than thirty years into thinking he was only an idiot who couldn't do anything right. An idiot with the strength of a superpower and the heroes he desperately tried to emulate. Alfred F. Jones was trying (and succeeding) to make the people of the world forget he was intelligent, a force to be reckoned with.

_But, why?_ Ivan couldn't wrap his head around it. The blonde before him would certainly not spill his secrets so easily. He had nearly exploded with panic at the conference as Ivan tried to pin credit on him. The Russian finished his tea and barely registered the excited American dragging him out of the cafe and back to the conference room where they both received funny looks.

Ivan ignored everything for the most part, only saying a few short words when directly spoken to. After Germany announced the end of the meeting, Ivan stood and walked out of the room without acknowledging anyone and, only stopping to pick up a quick meal from a bakery, returned to his hotel room.

Russia had some thinking to do.

Hope you guys like the next installment! Two chapters in one day! Hoo-yeah!

Lemme know if there's something that needs work, kay? ^L^


	6. Ch 6: Thoughts

Just wanted to thank all you reviewers out there! Especially the faithful Ohime-sama. You guys are awesome!

This is a short, mini-chapter. I know you want a better-sized one, but I wasn't about to combine this with the next one. You know, for the sake of the plot and consistency, and all that good stuff. 'Sides, you'll have all kinds of ideas after this one and I want you to be able to stew on them at least a little bit before the next chapter. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Russia entered his hotel room, flicking on the light and depositing his dinner on the entryway table. He untied and tugged off his boots, kicking them out of the way into the corner and then removed his coat, hanging it on a hook.

Picking up his dinner, Ivan walked into the kitchen and grabbed a fork, sitting down to eat at the kitchen table and looking out the window at the reddening sunset.

_I suppose it is only natural America begin to develop a conflict of interest within himself. His nation has been doing well, despite the economic crisis... But Alfred is definitely one to help others by any means necessary. It is one of his defining characteristics.~ _Ivan sipped thoughtfully from his tea. _So someone else is pulling the strings... Perhaps the president? _

Ivan looked out the window, wondering at the beautiful stripes of colour twisting across the sky. Violet eyes drifted down to watch the city below, lights sparking to life in the distance.

The city that never sleeps. Alfred had done well, here.

The Russian closed his eyes, eating a forkful of the savory pie. He let out a sigh.

_Perhaps. Perhaps not. America is young and yet maturing at a rate none of us from the old world could have dreamed of... I believe I would be correct to assume he would develop a few 'growing pains' from the experience.~ _

Smiling to himself, Ivan finished his meal and watched the sun set beyond the skyline, lights decorating the city below.

Ivan stood as the last rays of colour faded into black. He washed his fork in the sink, disposing of his trash in the garbage can, and wandered into the bedroom to begin his nightly routine.

_I think it is time to be reactivating that spy network I have here.~ _

Humming to himself a little tune, Ivan went about his business, knowing every step put him closer to his goal.

Yay! Super-short, but I promise, I'll have another out before you know it! ^L^


	7. Ch 7: In the Past

This chapter is full of flashback, so don't freak out when nothing happens with Ivan. It's all about Alfred, here, folks. ^L^ Enjoy.~

"-" is a time-jump or location change, just for future reference.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

The week-long meeting in New York came to an end and the attending nations departed for their respective homes, each feeling much better about their economic situation and the future.

Alfred flopped back onto his couch. Turning on the television, he flipped through the channels, kicking his feet up onto the wooden coffee table. _Finally, a little peace. Wonder what's on the Discovery Channel..._

The American sat and watched as Mike Rowe said a few witty remarks before plunging into a dark, cramped, boiler.

_Wish my life was that simple..._ America pouted, eyes wandering from the T.V. over to the window where the November clouds covered the sky in muted white. The floor to ceiling window showed off the tops of the skyscrapers and a little to the right of its center stood the brand new World Trade Center Tower, completed only a few years ago.

His pout slowly transformed into a small smile as the blonde thought about the building. It stood as a symbol of hope for his people, their ability to stand back up after being knocked down.

Alfred's hand reached up to touch the jagged scar on his right shoulder where it barely showed above the collar of his tee-shirt. He knew it would never go away, but the mark would fade with time.

Smile falling from his face, the American remembered the day it had appeared.

The alarm on his dresser beeped uproariously. Alfred rushed from the bathroom to silence it, bashing it a little too hard and sending mechanical pieces and plastic flying across the room.

The American sighed and picked up the remains of the clock, dumping them into the trash can beside the dresser. _Third one this week. _ Toweling off his still damp hair, the blonde returned to the bathroom sink to pick up his discarded toothbrush.

America was an early riser, despite his reputation for sleeping in. He only overslept his alarm when he spent all night working on paperwork or when he had just come back from a trip.

Of course, weekends were a totally different story.

Alfred finished his morning routine and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his trademark bomber jacket, taking the stairs down to the hustle and bustle of New York City.

Grinning, the American strolled down the street, moving through the throngs of people with practiced ease. _Maybe I can stop for a coffee. I don't have to be to the office until nine..._ Alfred glanced down at his watch, smile spreading across his face. _Starbucks it is!_

Exiting the Starbucks with his venti white chocolate mocha, the blonde looked down at his watch. _Nearly quarter 'till. Gotta' get a move on, Jones._

He turned down Washington St. and that's when it happened.

It started with the phone call. Alfred pulled out his ringing cell and flipped it open, pulling out the antennae. "Yello.~ Alfred F. Jones speaking. What can I do for ya'?"

There was a short spurt of panicked voices, all muddling together on the other end of the line, followed by screams, and then silence as the line cut out.

The American pulled the phone from his ear, looking at it quizzically. _ That was weird. Wonder what's up with them... Better call 'em back. _

But before he could push the call button, there was a loud roar from overhead. Alfred looked up just in time to see a commercial jet collide with one of the tallest skyscrapers at the end of the street. _Is that...? _

Eyes wide, the American dropped his coffee and bolted toward his destination: The World Trade Center.

From that moment, everything was a blur. The blonde showed his ID and was immediately allowed into the South Tower, yelling at people to evacuate immediately. There was a growing pain in his right shoulder as if someone had snuck up and stabbed him in the back.

Alfred ignored it. His people needed him.

There was screaming and the American began to climb the stairs, urgently insisting people leave the building. All he could think was _If that tower falls, all these people..._ He couldn't get them out fast enough. There were too many employees.

Many people were pressed against the windows, looking at the wobbling tower next to them, the smoke billowing from above, and all the horrified faces of everyone inside. There were members of management telling people to return to their desks and Alfred couldn't believe they didn't realize the danger everyone was in.

_We have to get out. _

America had only been urging people downstairs and out the door for ten minutes when a second plane struck the South Tower; the building he was in.

The blonde fell against a doorway with a gasp as the pain in his shoulder suddenly doubled and he felt blood running in streams down his back, being absorbed into his dress shirt under his bomber jacket. Leaning heavily in the doorjamb, Alfred reached up to tenderly press two fingers into his shoulder, pulling them away to look at the crimson staining their tips.

The American's sky blue eyes wavered slightly. _Who...? Who could possibly...?_ He shook himself and wiped the blood onto his trousers. _No time. I'll deal with that later._

People were beginning to panic in earnest. The building had been shaken with the force of the impact and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before their situation would worsen dramatically.

Alfred jumped onto a desk, kicking the computer and keyboard from its surface, and yelled at the top of his voice: "Everyone! Look at me! Listen! I know you're freaking out right now: We all are. But stop running around like a bunch of morons!"

Many employees stopped their mad rushing to listen to the American's voice of reason.

"I need all of you to _CALMLY _exit through the door. _DON'T_ take the elevator. It won't work. Just get everyone out and down the stairs. I'm gonna' go up and see if I can get everyone upstairs to come down in an orderly fashion. Just make sure everyone gets out ok." Alfred jumped off the desk, paying his injured shoulder no heed, and turned to a manager who was previously ordering people into their desks. "I need you to organize them and manage the traffic on the stairs. Get some people to help you. We need to make this as quick as possible."

The frantic man nodded obediently and did as he was ordered, rushing from the room and past many of the panicking employees.

True to his word, the blonde headed to the stairs, taking them up, pushing his way through the chaotic mass of frightened people.

Shortly after Alfred made it to the thirtieth floor, his phone rang again. Flipping it open, the American worked his way to a window, pulling out the antennae. "Jones."

There was chaos on the other end. A man from the Pentagon screamed at him through the cell, "Get out of there, Jones! Just get out!" Then, there was a roar as the line cut out.

Alfred couldn't leave his people. _Wouldn't_ leave his people. America couldn't believe such a thing was even _suggested. _He angrily flipped his phone shut, snapping down the antennae, and shoved it into his pocket.

He had just returned to the stairwell to resume his climb when the pain in his shoulder suddenly magnified tenfold, forcing him to the ground where countless feet trampled and kicked him down the stairs and into a corner. Glasses askew, the American struggled to sit upright. His vision swam and he fell to his side. A vicious wet coughing fit raked his lungs, expelling crimson blood onto the cold, cement floor.

The American curled into himself, grasping at his sides, coughing, unable to stand or even sit up. _I can't breath. God, I can't breath!_ Darkness creeped at the edge of his vision, slowly consuming him until everything went black and all was still: The screams of his people hushed into silence.

Alfred had woken in the dark and silence, his whole body battered beyond recognition. He couldn't move, couldn't see. There was nothing but pain.

The American waited in the silence, sometimes drifting out of consciousness, other times coming awake to attempt to move his fingers and toes.

There finally came a time when he could and he felt triumphant. _At least I'm healing. That means my people are still strong. _Alfred smiled at that.

Eventually, the blonde realized what must have happened: He had passed out and, at some point, the building had collapsed, with him still in it. Any ordinary human would have been killed instantly, but Alfred was a nation. He was immortal. Unfortunately, he could still experience pain like everyone else. And right now, he was in a lot of it.

The American bided his time, waiting impatiently for someone to come remove the rubble crushing him.

After an inexplicable amount of time, there was an awful crunching sound. The American turned his head in the direction of the noise and was relieved to see a faint light. Alfred yelled hoarsely and the efforts on the other side of the opening were suddenly doubled as the people on the other side realized there was a live person under the mess.

The blonde twitched his fingers in anticipation. _Finally, I can find out what's going on._

America knew his nation hadn't been attacked while he was trapped under the remains of the building, but he desperately wanted to learn what had happened that day and all the days after that in Washington.

_They're probably angry as Hell right now, and Iggy's prolly' worried out of his mind. Mattie, too. _

Alfred grinned at the sunlight glinting through Texas' bent frames. The people on the other side saw him and yelled for an ambulance. Paramedics rushed to the scene and pulled what was left of him out of the pile of concrete and steel and onto a gurney.

The blonde knew he looked like Hell run over. His insides felt like mush and he could barely move his fingers in response to their ministrations.

When one of them was hovering over his head, after he was hefted into the back of an ambulance, America croaked in his ear, "Date?" The man understood and obliged by telling him it was the third of October.

Alfred had been under that building for nearly three weeks.

The hospital was busy. For Alfred it was chaos. The staff checked his ID and immediately he was transported from one room to another. They moved him about constantly, waiting for orders from the number on his card.

Eventually, he was moved to another hospital altogether. From there, he was moved to the top floor and transported by helicopter to another. He was then transferred to an empty wing of that hospital to await the government officials who would be moving him to yet another location.

Alfred was just about fed up with all the security when he was finally deposited by an agent going by the name Smith in a top secret military base underground near Washington.

It had taken two days to get him there and all Alfred wanted to do was leave.

America had improved tremendously in those two days, though. He had started to heal almost immediately after the rubble was pulled out of his insides. His wounds were closing all over, except for the gash in his shoulder, stitched and bandaged. He could breath without too much difficulty and he could even grasp things in his hands and wiggle his toes.

When the President entered the room, followed by two Secret Service agents, Alfred wasn't surprised and gave Bush a little wave.

"What'd I miss, boss?" the American rasped, a serious expression present on his face, despite the comical words and gesture.

The President took a seat in the chair next to the bed and looked America over. Eventually, anxious eyes came to rest on Alfred's face.

"We were attacked. Terrorists."

America blinked. Certainly, there had been terrorist attacks recently, but nothing this big. These were the World Trade Center towers. An icon on the New York City skyline. Alfred couldn't believe someone would be so bold without declaring all out war.

"Well, I'm pretty much ok, now, so where else did they hit? They didn't take out anything too major, or I'd still be unconscious."

His boss grimaced. "The towers and the Pentagon."

"The Pentagon!" the blonde wheezed loudly. _Well, that explains why I couldn't breath._ The building was a place of great importance in his nation. The loss of its functionality, even temporarily, was enough to send him under for a while. "But it feels like they're getting back on their feet. I can breath again, at least." Alfred let out a faint smile.

The President leaned forward and put a comforting hand over the nation's wrist, giving it a light squeeze. "I'm real sorry, son. I promise, I'll never let it happen again as long as I'm in office. We're gonna' make them pay." The man then got up and left with his two agents following behind him, shutting the door with a bang.

Those words left a sour taste in Alfred's mouth and a queasiness in his stomach that didn't go away for years.

Alfred stood in the Oval Office, fuming. So many of his people dead. So many dying in an unwanted and unnecessary war.

His body was sore and his heart ached with every death. His people were upset. He was furious. The government had gone to war, which he had advised against. He watched as Saddam Hussein was killed and the government overthrown. America had been there as the Navy Seals team had killed Bin Ladin, had been horrified by the ferocity of his own people. Time and again, he had tried to make the leaders of the Middle East come together for the sake of peace, but the Arabic nations were understandably in an uproar.

Alfred's people were getting there, too. None of them wanted to be at war any longer. They didn't understand why the government still insisted upon it.

The President entered the room, turning to glance at the nation before gesturing for him to take a seat. Alfred stubbornly remained standing while his boss sat in his chair behind the large desk.

The man leaned forward onto his hands, sighing. This was a different man than the one before. He was still new, the first African American President. He looked older already, though. Alfred always noticed when they aged, and they aged quickly. But today was not the day to reminisce. It was the day to give the President a piece of his mind.

"What is it, America?"

Alfred took a deep breath before flying off the handle. "What do you think is going on!? People are _dying_, sir! _DYING!_ It's time to get the Hell out of there! I can't believe you still have our people out there getting killed! What are we fighting for!? Tell me WHAT!" The American punctuated this last demand by slamming a fist onto the top of a stack of paperwork, shredding it instantly and sending the pieces flying up into the air like confetti.

Sighing again, the President rubbed the bridge of his nose. "America, I've told you before. We have to establish a democracy, or there will always be chaos in the Middle East... President Bush must have explained everything to you a long time ago, now."

"That is a load of _shit_ and you know it, sir! Why the Hell are we there? I want the truth! Our people deserve the truth! We went to war over a terrorist attack! Thousands died! I _felt_ it! But I wasn't the one raging and raving and working people up about it! I wanted those responsible in _jail _for crimes of terrorism, not murdered in hiding! I didn't want to see our military dying in bombings all over Iraqi streets! Those nations are furious with me, now! Iraq rarely looks me in the eye! _Why_ are our people still sacrificing themselves? For what cause?" Alfred's anger simmered as he ranted and slowly drained as he dropped into the chair he was offered before. Looking up at the President, _his _President, the American asked quietly, "Tell me, sir. Please. I have to know what's going on."

President Obama ran a hand up and over his face, rubbing the back of his neck. "All right, America. I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone. Top secret."

Alfred nodded his assent.

"Those people, you know the ones. It's them. Same as in all the paperwork. They're the ones telling people that my health care is a terrible idea, too. They're the ones who want the war, America. And we can't do anything about it."

The President of the United States looked at Alfred, exhaustion apparent in his gaze.

Alfred looked back in horror, knowing just what was going on and hating his part in it with all his heart.

Alfred pulled his hand from his shoulder, letting it fall onto his lap. He pulled himself from his reverie at the same time. It was all in the past. And, as much as it pained him, he knew he still couldn't do anything about it.

Ok, so longest chapter so far and prolly' for a while. It took _days_ to finish this thing. :P I just about lost my mind, too. Hope it's worth it and you guys enjoy it. It's all for you! Especially you lovely reviewers.~ ^L^

As always, criticism is greatly appreciated and reviews are, too.

Thanks to all of you for reading and telling me what you think. Hope you have a happy Thanksgiving!


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